"They have promised money for her keep," said Jack, unwilling to take the credit of greater generosity than was demanded of him, "but if it should fail, well, I have enough for us both. But time will show. I misdoubt me that my unknown relative hath made an unfortunate marriage with one in a state of life to which she hath not been called, for truly the apparel of the child is not that of one in our condition of life." "You speak truth, neighbour," said the miller, fingering the delicate white frock in which the baby was dressed. "Ah well, I must get me to my millstones. And should a woman's wit at times seem needful to you, friend, in caring for the child, my good wife will be pleased to give you the benefit of her own, of which, to speak truth, she hath not an unfair share." And so at length the worthy miller closed the door, and left Jack and the baby to pursue their newly-made acquaintance in solitude. But not very long were the two left alone, for many were the visitors Jack received during the day, some calling ostensibly to congratulate him that the storm was over, and himself and his bridge still standing, others boldly averring at once that curiosity was the sole object of their visit. Little Miss Primrose sat on Jack's knee, and received graciously the marks of approbation bestowed upon her, though resenting all undue familiarities, and refusing to leave her refuge to honour the most polite and insinuating guest. To the oft-repeated request that she would tell her name, she gave in English the one invariable answer, "I am Little Miss Primrose," and beyond that, little information could be extracted from her. Either her baby ears could not understand, or her baby lips frame replies to the questions put to her, and she seemed quite content to spend the greater part of the day on the boatman's knee, or sitting on the floor at his feet, taking but little notice of the frequent visitors, except by the scrutinising glances she gave them out of her wonderful dark eyes.